"A friend! Oh, this is madness," says Sir Guy, with a perceptible start; then, turning toward his mother, he says, in a rather louder tone, that adds to the imperiousness of his manner, "Mother, will _you_ speak to Lilian, and desire her not to go?"

"But, my dear, why?" asks Lady Chetwoode, raising her eyes in a vague fashion from her pen.

"Because I will not have her a.s.sociating with people of whom we know nothing," replies he, at his wit's end for an excuse. This one is barefaced, as at any other time he is far too liberal a man to condemn any one for being a mere stranger.

"I know a good deal of her," says Lilian, imperturbably, "and I think her charming. Perhaps,--who knows?--as she is unknown, she may prove a d.u.c.h.ess in disguise."

"She may, but I doubt it," replies he, a disagreeable note of irony running through his speech.

"Have you discovered her parentage?" asks Lady Chetwoode, hastily. "Is she of low birth? Lilian, my dear, don't have low tastes: there is nothing on earth," says Lady Chetwoode, mildly, "so--so--so _melancholy_ as a person afflicted with low tastes."

"If thinking Mrs. Arlington a lady in the very best sense of the word is a low taste, I confess myself afflicted," says Miss Chesney, rather saucily; whereupon Lady Chetwoode, who knows mischief is brewing and is imbued with a wholesome horror of all disputes between her son and his ward, rises hurriedly and prepares to quit the room.

"I hope Archie will not miss his train," she says, irrelevantly. "He is always so careless, and I know it is important he should see his solicitor this evening about the transfer of York's farm. Where is Archibald?"

"In the library, I think," responds Lilian. "Dear Archie, how we shall miss him! shan't we, auntie?"

This tenderly regretful speech has reference to Mr. Chesney's intended departure, he having at last, through business, been compelled to leave Chetwoode and the object of his adoration.

"We shall, indeed. But remember,"--kindly,--"he has promised to return to us at Christmas with Taffy."

"I do remember," gayly; "but for that, I feel I should give way to tears."

Here Lady Chetwoode lays her hand upon the girl's shoulder, and presses it gently, entreatingly.

"Do not reject Guy's counsel, child," she says, softly; "you know he always speaks for your good."

Lilian makes no reply, but, gracefully turning her head, lays her red lips upon the gentle hand that still rests upon her shoulder.

Then Lady Chetwoode leaves the room, and Lilian and her guardian are alone. An ominous silence follows her departure. Lilian, who has abandoned the unhappy sock, has now taken in hand a very valuable Dresden china cup, and is apparently examining it with the most profound interest.

"I have your promise not to go again to The Cottage?" asks Sir Guy at length, the exigency of the case causing his persistency.

"I think not."

"Why will you persist in this obstinate refusal?" angrily.

"For many reasons," with a light laugh. "Shall I tell you one? Did you ever hear of the 'relish of being forbidden?'"

"It is not a trifling matter. If it was possible, I would tell you what would prevent your ever wishing to know this Mrs. Arlington again. But, as it is, I am your guardian,"--determinately,--"I am responsible for you: I do not wish you to be intimate at The Cottage, and in this one matter at least I must be obeyed."

"Must you? we shall see," replies Miss Chesney, with a tantalizing laugh that, but for the sweet beauty of her _riante_ face, her dewy, mutinous mouth, her great blue eyes, now ablaze with childish wrath, would have made him almost hate her. As it is, he is exceeding full of an indignation he scarcely seeks to control.

"I, as your guardian, forbid you to go to see that woman," he says, in a condensed tone.

"And why, pray?"

"I cannot explain: I simply forbid you. She is not fit to be an a.s.sociate of yours."

"Then I will _not_ be forbidden: so there!" says Miss Chesney, defiantly.

"Lilian, once for all, do not go to The Cottage again," says Guy, very pale. "If you do you will regret it."

"Is that a threat?"

"No; it is a warning. Take it as such if you are wise. If you go against my wishes in this matter, I shall refuse to take charge of you any longer."

"I don't want you to take charge of me," cries Lilian, tears of pa.s.sion and wounded feeling in her eyes. In her excitement she has risen to her feet and stands confronting him, the Dresden cup still within her hand.

"I am not a beggar, that I should crave your hospitality. I can no doubt find a home with some one who will not hate me as you do." With this, the foolish child, losing her temper _in toto_, raises her hand and, because it is the nearest thing to her, flings the cherished cup upon the floor, where it lies shattered into a thousand pieces.

In silence Guy contemplates the ruins, in silence Lilian watches him; no faintest trace of remorse shows itself in her angry fair little face. I think the keenest regret Guy knows at this moment is that she isn't a boy, for the simple reason that he would dearly like to box her ears.

Being a woman, and an extremely lovely one, he is necessarily disarmed.

"So now!" says Miss Lilian, still defiant.

"I have a great mind," replies Guy, raising his eyes slowly to hers, "to desire you to pick up every one of those fragments."

This remark is unworthy of him, proving that in his madness there is not even method. His speech falls as a red spark into the hot fire of Miss Chesney's wrath.

"_You_ desire!" she says, blazing instantly. "What is it you would say?

'Desire!' On the contrary, _I_ desire _you_ to pick them up, and I shall stay here to see my commands obeyed."

She has come a little closer to him, and is now standing opposite him with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. With one firm little finger she points to the _debris_. She looks such a fragile creature possessed with such an angry spirit that Chetwoode, in spite of himself acknowledging the comicality of the situation, cannot altogether conceal a smile.

"Pick them up," says Lilian imperatively, for the second time.

"What a little Fury you are!" says Guy; and then, with a faint shrug, he succ.u.mbs, and, stooping, does pick up the pieces of discord.

"I do it," he says, raising himself when his task is completed, and letting severity once more harden his features, "to prevent my mother's being grieved by such an exhibition of----"

"No, you do not," interrupts she; "you do it because I wished it. For the future understand that, though you are my guardian, I will not be treated as though I were a wayward child."

"Well, you _have_ a wicked temper!" says Guy, who is very pale, drawing his breath quickly. He smiles as he says it, but it is a smile more likely to incense than to soothe.

"I have not," retorts Lilian, pa.s.sionately. "But that you goaded me I should never have given way to anger. It is you who have the wicked temper. I dislike you! I hate you! I wish I had never entered your house! And"--superbly, drawing herself up to her full height, which does not take her far--"I shall now leave it! And I shall never come back to it again!"

This fearful threat she hurls at his head with much unction. Not that she means it, but it is as well to be forcible on such occasions. The less you mean a thing, the more eloquent and vehement you should grow; the more you mean it, the less vehemence the better, because then it is energy thrown away: the fact accomplished later on will be crushing enough in itself. This is a rule that should be strictly observed.

Guy, whose head is held considerably higher than its wont, looks calmly out of the window, and disdains to take notice of this outburst.

His silence irritates Miss Chesney, who has still sufficient rage concealed within her to carry her victoriously through two quarrels. She is therefore about to let the vials of her wrath once more loose upon her unhappy guardian, when the door opens, and Florence, calm and stately, sweeps slowly in.

"Aunt Anne not here?" she says; and then she glances at Guy, who is still holding in his hands some of the fragments of the broken cup, and who is looking distinctly guilty, and then suspiciously at Lilian, whose soft face is crimson, and whose blue eyes are very much darker than usual.

There is a second's pause, and then Lilian, walking across the room, goes out, and bangs the door, with much unnecessary violence, behind her.

"Dear me!" exclaims Florence, affectedly, when she has recovered from the shock her delicate nerves have sustained through the abrupt closing of the door. "How vehement dear Lilian is! There is nothing so ruinous to one's manners as being brought up without the companionship of well-bred women. The loss of it makes a girl so--so--hoydenish, and----"

"I don't think Lilian hoydenish," interrupts Guy, who is in the humor to quarrel with his shadow,--especially, strange as it seems, with any one who may chance to speak ill of the small shrew who has just flown like a whirlwind from the room.